Conflagration
by Lemon Zinger
Summary: A fire causes a case to go awry. BBA


**Thank you to Azolean for Beta-ing. **

"Holmes?" I yelled, squinting my eyes against the smoke. I cupped my hands around my mouth, shouting his name again. "Holmes!"

I started coughing. My mind screamed at me to get out. My heart kept my feet still.

"Holmes!" _For the love of Heaven, Holmes, answer me!_

I heard the sound of coughing coming from upstairs. I rushed to the stairs and raced up them, pausing at the top to look around for my friend. Instead Wyndham, our somewhat crazed quarry, stumbled out of a room to my left. In an instant I had my fist on his collar and had pressed him up against the wall, my pistol at his temple.

"Where is Holmes?" I asked menacingly.

The man chuckled. He was the only man I knew who could have a gun at his head and laugh. He pointed a shaky finger at a hole in the floorboards, where some of the timbers must have given way. I didn't waste time looking down the hole. I rushed downstairs, running to the room I surmised Holmes was in.

He was lying facedown on the floor, flames licking at his coat; I hurried to beat them out. I found the strength I only had when the situation was desperate, and managed to carry him out into the dimly lit street, which was beginning to become packed with people. I saw the fire brigade pull up, but none of the noise or chaos going on around me mattered.

Only Holmes mattered.

I set him against a brick house about three houses down the street from the fire. After my eyes had adjusted to the darkness, I assessed his wounds; noting the burns on his left hip, his right arm, and his left hand. He coughed, and I noticed with alarm how labored his breathing sounded. His lungs had breathed in a harmful amount of smoke, I realized with a grimace.

"Sir, we should get him to a hospital," a man said, putting a hand on my shoulder.

"I'm a doctor," I replied. "I'll see to him."

"Are you sure?" the man asked.

I didn't even look at him as I repeated my former statement. I was curt, but my worry was mounting.

I started coughing and grew little dizzy while I tried to catch my breath. It was a few moments before I could fetch a cab and then I needed the cabby's help to get Holmes inside. When we got to Baker Street, I had the cabby help me carry Holmes upstairs. I paid him triple the average fare and he nodded his thanks as he departed.

Mrs. Hudson had quickly fetched some water and cloths, and told me she'd come up if I needed anything at all in the night. I removed Holmes' shirt and quickly wrapped the burns in cotton wool. I made sure to cover them well, knowing air would hinder the healing process. Once I had wrapped his wounds, I checked him over for injuries related to his fall, but thankfully found only minor bruises and a small cut on his knee. I listened to his breathing. I was alarmed about how strained and shallow it seemed. I applied some hot compresses to his extremities to try to help his breathing, and then took care of myself, removing my smoky clothes and donning my dressing gown. I was exhausted, but sat at Holmes' side for several hours.

He woke up at about four in the morning, five hours into my vigil. He started awake and jerked, much to my dismay, letting out a groan of pain.

"Holmes, lie still," I commanded him, a little brusquer then I had intended. I was tired and did not want to have to redo the wrappings.

"Wyndham," Holmes gasped, his voice hoarse and almost unrecognizable.

"He's been taken care of," I lied, just to get Holmes to lie still.

To my surprise, Holmes grabbed my shoulder roughly with his good hand.

"Wyndham, you cannot get away with this," he growled, and then he started to cough.

Thankfully the fit didn't last long, but he still had a grip on my shoulder. I winced as his strong hand held me firmly.

"Holmes, it's Watson!" I cried, shaken that Holmes didn't recognize me.

"Wyndham, you cannot…" Holmes's hand slipped from my shoulder and I watched carefully as Holmes relaxed.

It was a momentarily lull. Suddenly he started coughing again. Heaving gasps that sounded tremendously painful. I remembered the burn on his hip and became distressed at the amount of anguish he must be suffering. Not only was he coughing and burned badly, he was also disoriented.

_ He must still think he's confronting Wyndham. Or think that Wyndham is causing his pain,_ I thought.

His coughing fit left him breathless and moaning. I hated to see him reduced to this, but knew I could only do so much. I knew I couldn't stay awake much longer and be good for anything later; so I tried to get a little sleep sitting in a chair I'd placed next to Holmes' bed, but only managed an hour before I woke to Holmes stirring again. I looked over just as his eyes snapped open and he regarded me curiously.

"Holmes?" I prayed he would recognize me.

He tried to say my name, but his voice was very weak. I held up a hand.

"Don't try to speak. You need to rest. You've been badly burned and inhaled a great deal of smoke, but you'll be fine."

He looked at me carefully, as though trying to make quite certain that I was not a dream. I took his good hand, smiling at him.

"It's all right, Holmes," I whispered gently.

He winced and I felt his hand tighten around mine. I wondered what was bothering him, but didn't want him trying to speak.

"Point to what hurts," I ordered kindly.

His finger indicated his hip. I checked the wrappings, making sure they were staying in place. I found that they were holding and checked the other two dressings, just to make sure. I decided to try another remedy for burns. I went to fetch my bag, growing slightly dizzy as I climbed the stairs. I returned with my bag and dug through it for the chalk I kept there. I had to fetch the linseed oil and vinegar from Mrs. Hudson; but after retrieving those and thanking her profusely, I got to work.

I mixed the chalk and linseed oil until it had the same texture as honey. The thought made my stomach growl and I glanced at my watch to see how much longer it would be before I could reasonably ask for breakfast. Then I added vinegar until it was like treacle.

I grabbed a brush from Holmes's desk. I had no idea what he used it for. I had noticed it only by chance one day. I rinsed it off, in case he had used it for some chemicals. Then I slowly unwound one of the bandages and used the brush to spread some of the mixture on Holmes's hand. I did not think he was still awake, since his eyes were closed and his breathing shallow, but steady. However, I heard him sigh with relief and continued to apply the mixture to his other burns.

That completed, I cleaned up; but put the ingredients nearby so I could repeat the process again about lunchtime. He grabbed my arm as I turned to leave and I watched as he mouthed something. At first I didn't understand, but when he repeated it a third time, I finally made out: "Mycroft."

"I'll let him know. Now rest," I ordered.

He looked bothered by something, but closed his eyes obediently.

By this time, it was already half past six in the morning, and I only managed another hour's sleep on the settee. I had thought about sending a note to Mycroft, but decided to do it later.

Mrs. Hudson came up to check on me at about a quarter before eight and I asked about breakfast. She brought up a delicious-looking tray, and I ate ravenously. Holmes slept through most of the morning and I managed a couple more hours' sleep after the meal. My coughing had, thankfully, subsided somewhat, though I still had fits every now and again.

Holmes woke up again at noon, looking better than he had the night before. I offered him some water and he drank slowly. He managed to convey that his throat was hurting and I gave him some tea with honey and lemon to sooth him. I reapplied the chalk mixture, smiling as I noted the relief on my friend's face. It was a rather good remedy for burns that had a cooling effect.

It was a long afternoon. I tried to sleep, but only managed it in one or two hour shifts. I continued to treat Holmes and by dinner I had managed to get him to sip at some broth. I had my own dinner. Then, to my surprise, we got a visitor. I had no idea who would be calling at seven at night, but when Mrs. Hudson informed me it was inspector Lestrade I smacked my forehead with the palm of my hand. Of course, he had been the one to put Holmes on the case in the first place, I realized. I let him come up, pulling Holmes' bedroom door mostly shut.

"Doctor? I'm sorry to bother you, but when Holmes didn't inform me of any developments, I grew a little worried," Lestrade said, fingering the rim of his hat.

I offered him a seat, but he refused, so I explained what had happened. Holmes had tracked Wyndham to his sister's house. She was, fortunately, away at the time; and we had gone in, hoping to apprehend him before matters got worse. I still had no idea how the fire had started. I only knew that it had spread, fast. I had been looking at some papers on the desk, quite unaware of the flames licking the doorway until a shout from upstairs had caused me to turn around. I had heard a noise like something was falling; which must have been Holmes, but I had assumed it was just debris.

Lestrade was staring at me with wide eyes and his mouth hanging open after I had told my narrative. I sat down, as I was still very exhausted.

"What about Wyndham?" Lestrade asked.

"I don't know. After I got Holmes out, I forgot about him," I admitted.

"So he may be at large again. Or he may be dead," Lestrade said.

I didn't like his tone. What did he expect? That I leave Holmes to go chase after Wyndham? I wouldn't have caught him with my coughing anyway.

"You can ask the fire brigade if they found a body," I said, struggling to keep my frustration in check.

"And if it turns out he's still out there?" Lestrade asked.

"Heavens, I don't know, Lestrade. Holmes is in no condition to help," I said.

"Watson, how much do you know about this case?" Lestrade asked.

"Nothing. The first I had heard was yesterday afternoon. I was with a patient when you called on Holmes, and he asked me to join him in the chase; telling me only the name and description of the man we were after," I said.

"Then I cannot judge your actions," Lestrade muttered.

"What is that supposed to mean?" I asked, unable to keep a small amount of irritation out of my voice.

"Did you notice anything strange about Holmes before… the accident?" Lestrade asked.

"Well, he seemed eager about the case… more so than usual," I remembered. I had just passed it off as happiness to finally have a case. He'd been growing bored.

"Well, considering it is Mycroft that this man is after, I'm not surprised," Lestrade said.

If I hadn't been sitting already, I would have collapsed.

"Mycroft?" I squeaked in surprised. "What on earth is the connection?"

"Mycroft discovered Wyndham's treason and ruined the man. Wyndham was to be put on trial, but it was delayed when the possibility of insanity came up. Wyndham managed to escape and we believe Mycroft is his target," Lestrade explained.

I closed my eyes, sighing with surprise, horror, and guilt. It may be my fault if Mycroft died. Unbidden drops of blood flashed in my imagination, along with Wyndham's crazed face.

"Watson?" Lestrade had gotten up and was handing me some brandy he had poured. "I'm sorry, that was not very tactful."

I swallowed the brandy, shaking my head. "No, it's all right, Lestrade. You're the one who is owed an apology. I should have told the fire brigade to look out for Wyndham at least," I said.

Lestrade stood up. "You'll pardon me, but I should go."

"No, no, of course," I said. "Is there anything I can do?"

"Just look after the younger Mr. Holmes. I'll take care of the elder," Lestrade said.

_If he is still alive,_ my guilt nagged me.

I saw Lestrade out and went to go check on Holmes. He was sleeping peacefully and I reapplied the mixture to his burns. I looked at him, wondering if he would ever forgive me if Mycroft fell victim to Wyndham.

I would never be able to forgive myself.

I called for Mrs. Hudson and dispatched a note to Anstruther, asking him to come check on Holmes at nine. Then I got dressed and noted the time, 7:45. If I hurried, I would get to Mycroft's home before he did and could watch for any trouble. I was sure Lestrade would have posted constables, but I wanted to be there too. It was the least I could do.

Resolved, I headed out into the chilly night air.

* * *

I did arrive at Mycroft's lodgings before he did. He was coming home from his club and I noticed a few constables in unofficial clothes loitering across the street.

_Too far away to do any real good._ I sighed. I positioned myself closer to the house, awaiting Mr. Holmes. He was not long in coming. He was in the back of a police wagon with Lestrade and another constable.

"This is truly bothersome," he grumbled as he left the cab. "I don't want to be shadowed by you all the time."

_That's my fault,_ I thought. _Don't blame them._

I watched carefully as Mycroft ascended his front steps, but I felt eyes locked on me. I looked back towards the carriage and saw Lestrade watching me carefully.

"Doctor?" he called softly, causing the other constable and Mycroft to turn and look.

No sense in hiding it. I went forward and stepped into the light that was coming from a lamppost nearby.

"How's Sherlock?" Mycroft asked quickly.

"He was all right when I left," I reported.

"We should get you inside, sir," Lestrade said, ushering Mycroft to the door and fetching the lantern to light our path.

"Oh well, I suppose you'll want some of your boys to spend the night," Mycroft sighed.

"Sir, it's for your own protection," Lestrade said.

"What gives you the idea I can't defend myself?" Mycroft retorted.

Lestrade didn't know Mycroft as well as I did, and I knew that behind that lazy and bulky figure was a man with sharp eyes and quick reflexes.

"You're too great an asset to risk it," I said, stepping up and helping Mycroft inside. "Besides, you need your rest. Let them stay up all night."

"What happened, Doctor? Why wasn't Sherlock able to catch Wyndham?" Mycroft asked, letting me step ahead of him into his home.

I was tackled to the ground with such force that I was unable to recover most of my senses for a few seconds. When I did recover my vision, I saw Wyndham holding a knife above me in the faint light from the windows.

Then the hall was flooded with light as Lestrade ran up with the lantern. Wyndham realized his mistake and frowned.

I heard the sound of a gun being cocked and looked over to see Mycroft pointing it at Wyndham. Mycroft didn't even flinch when he fired and Wyndam fell off me. I quickly moved away and Lestrade moved to help me up.

"Are you hurt, Doctor?" Lestrade asked.

"No, I'm fine," I replied. I would be sore from the fall for a week or so, but I was unharmed.

"Sir, you just shot him!" the constable exclaimed. The other two ran up from the other side of the street, looking at the scene with bewilderment.

"He broke into my house, and he was threatening the doctor. I think the law will pardon my actions," Mycroft said.

"But he had stopped when he realized he had the wrong man," the constable protested.

"He was crazy, Jacob. There was no telling what he would have done. Mr. Holmes won't face any trouble for what he did," Lestrade said. "And I thought you two said there were no signs of a break in?" Lestrade rounded on the two constables who had been outside.

"There wasn't when we looked!" one protested.

"He may have come after they looked," Mycroft pointed out.

I turned to look at Wyndham, just to be certain he was quite dead. Mycroft's aim had been true, and blood was pooling around a hole in Wyndham's head.

"Well, I suppose you won't have the police shadowing you anymore," I told Mycroft.

"Thank goodness!" Mycroft said.

"Nice to know we're appreciated," Lestrade whispered to me. He didn't count on Mycroft's hearing being so sharp.

"You're appreciated where you're of some help. Watson and I handled that by ourselves," Mycroft growled.

"Oh, I was no help, it was my fault he got away," I said with a sigh, causing them to look at me in surprise. "Well, I'll leave you in peace. I should get back and check on Holmes."

"I will go with you," Mycroft said, surprising me. He never changed his habits except on very rare occasions.

"I'm sure he would be glad to know you're all right," I said.

"Lestrade, may we borrow that wagon of yours?" Mycroft asked.

"I suppose," Lestrade said, yawning.

That yawn was contagious, and I suddenly realised how tired I was. The ride back was a battle for me to keep my eyes open; a battle I was beginning to lose. I climbed the stairs rather slowly and went into Holmes' room. He was awake and one eyebrow rose at the sight of Mycroft behind me.

"Any pain?" I asked. He shook his head and I was glad he wasn't trying to speak. I gave him a few sips of water. "Well, I'll let you two visit for a little while," I said, nodding to Mycroft as I left.

I felt comfortable enough to lie down for a few moments while they were talking, and soon fell into a deep sleep.

* * *

The next morning I awoke with a blanket over me that I was sure I hadn't put there. I realised I had not checked on Holmes in nearly nine hours and hurried into his room. He looked up at me when I entered and I saw he was looking even better.

"I'm so sorry. I fell asleep," I explained.

"'S all right," he whispered.

His voice sounded better too, though I could tell his throat was still sore. I made another mixture and applied it, noticing that the burns were beginning to heal. Holmes drank some water, and I persuaded him to have some thin porridge for breakfast.

"You need to eat," he protested.

"I will."

"Now," he said.

Even though he couldn't talk much, he still managed to get his own way. I ate and returned, finding him scribbling on a piece of paper. I didn't remember leaving one out and assumed Mycroft must have gotten it for him.

He frowned when I entered and held up a finger to ask me to wait. I sat down, wondering what he was writing. He finished and folded it carefully. I accepted it when he handed it to me, then I saw him point to the door and realized he wanted me to leave.

_Masterful as ever,_ I thought. I fiddled with the piece of paper as I went to have a seat in the sitting room, wondering what on earth it said.

_Thanks for almost getting my brother killed._

_Good job forgetting about Wyndham._

_You were incredibly foolish._

I slowly opened it, fearing the worst. Instead, I read with misty eyes:

_ Watson,_

_ Mycroft told me of your heroism tonight, and also of your belief that it was your fault. This is an entirely inaccurate assumption, because I did not give you all the facts before asking you to help. That was my fault. I had intended to tell you he was out to murder someone, but because the matter was so personal, I hesitated. I hope you'll forgive my mistake, since it might have cost you your life._

_ Mycroft also told me how exhausted you looked, and when we found you were asleep I made him cover you and let you sleep. I can manage for one night. You need your rest!_

_ You have my highest regards, Doctor, for your bravery in rescuing both my brother and me. You are, and always will be, my good friend and trusted colleague. I don't say this enough: well done._

_ Sherlock Holmes_

I wanted to rush into Holmes' room and thank him, but I knew that he did not desire an emotional scene. It was enough to know that he thought well of me, no matter how badly I had handled the situation.

He made a swift recovery in the days that followed and by the following week he was trying to walk around. I was pleased with how his burns were healing and how his cough had subsided; but I was even gladder to know that he didn't hold my faults against me. I didn't hold his against him either.


End file.
